


Common Parlance

by meansgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friends With Benefits, Kissing, M/M, Netflix and Chill, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: TFW your fuckbuddy saves you from your awful, terrible, no-good, very bad day, and takes care of you and is very sweet. Or: Greg Loses Sleep, His Car, And His Flat, Gains a Boyfriend.--“Mmhmm.” Greg gestured at the TV. “Netflix,” he said. “And chill.”“Netflix and what?”“It means sex, Mycroft.”“It does not.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 23
Kudos: 372





	Common Parlance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/gifts).



> For the wonderful Savvy (bookjunkiecat), who requested  
> How about a "Netflix and Chill" situation? Either a friends-with-benefits to lovers or a misunderstanding.

The day was an absolute disaster. In fact, Greg thought this particular day might forever change the scale by which he measured them. 

His car? Total loss. 

Luckily Greg hadn’t been  _ in  _ it when a drunk driver took a hard left and flipped the BMW from where it was parked by the kerb, onto its side on the pavement  _ across the street _ . Lucky as well that no one had been hurt - not even said drunk driver. But Greg’s BMW, his beloved car, the first one he ever bought brand new, and that he had  _ just paid off,  _ was no more. 

It happened in the wee hours - three in the morning, only an hour after Donovan had dropped Greg off from their late night crime scene. Greg had still been awake to hear the screech of tires and the crunch of metal, to run to his window and look down on his street and shout in disbelief as he watched his car, leaking fluids everywhere, come to a grinding, teetering stop on its side. 

He’d been on the scene of the accident giving his account and the details, then commiserating with the responding cops, then hearing the neighbors’ lamentations about the entire situation, until the sun was up. 

He collapsed into bed thinking how lucky it was that it was his day off, and was dead to the world until after noon. When he woke, his back was screaming from an odd sleeping angle, and there was a faint… dripping… noise. 

Greg arrived in the hall outside his bedroom just in time to watch the plaster give way to a small flood of water that dropped from ceiling to floor with a splash, soaking him to the knees, and the carpet well into the front room. 

His flat? A disaster area.

He spent the rest of the day on the phone, first to his landlord, then to the insurance company for the car, and then to the PC who’d attended the scene of the crash to get the right information to the insurance adjusters. He realized around two in the afternoon that he hadn’t eaten or even had a cuppa all day. But, of course, when he went to flick on the kettle he realized that the power was out. He wandered to the other side of the flat; his telly worked. His bedroom lights worked. Wandering back into the kitchen, Greg noticed a slow drip of water from the light fixture in the ceiling. 

“Shit,” he muttered, and dug in his jeans pocket for his mobile to call the landlord again. 

It wasn’t until nearly four in the afternoon, after hours on the phone, emergency visit from a repairman to shut off the electricity to Greg’s flat entirely, time spent packing a duffel to stay… somewhere (the landlord would ‘get back to him’ about compensation for a hotel if it came to that) that Greg realized— 

His phone buzzed. 

_ Is seven p.m. still acceptable? _

_ MH _

Greg sagged, suddenly even more exhausted. 

He’d forgotten. 

Only a day this atrocious could have been the cause of his forgetting, because his entire week had been made bearable by the knowledge that tonight, capping off the only day off he’d have for another nine, he would at  _ least  _ be getting laid - and possibly  _ properly _ this time. He wouldn’t have forgotten that without disaster on an epic scale. 

This… this definitely qualified as disaster on an epic scale. He called instead of texting back. 

Mycroft, when he answered, sounded surprised. “Hello?”

“I have to cancel— Or, no, I mean—” Greg pinched the space between his eyes, staving off a vague ache. “Reschedule, I guess. I’m going to need to reschedule. My flat isn’t fit for visitors.” 

There was a silence. “My flat happens to be fit for visitors.”

Greg pulled his mobile away from his ear and blinked at it. It would never - not in a million years - have occurred to him that Mycroft’s place would be an option, epic disaster or no. He pressed the phone back to his ear. “Well…” he sighed. “It’s just that it’s been sort of a shit day. It’s been the  _ most _ shit day… ever, probably.” 

“All the more reason, I would say,” Mycroft murmured, his voice moving toward and away from the receiver as if he were shifting his own mobile around a bit. Greg could picture him, moving his face away from the phone to gesture at that PA of his. “I’ll send a car.”

Greg laughed, a touch hysterical. “Well that’s nice, because I don’t  _ have _ one as of three this morning.”

Mycroft made a sound that might be translatable as concern. 

Greg sighed again. “Don’t worry about it. I can take the tube.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mycroft’s voice went smooth and professional. “The car shall arrive at a quarter to seven, Detective Inspector. I will see you at seven. I must go. Have a nice afternoon.”

And the call disconnected. 

Greg spent the next couple of hours laid out on his sofa. At some point, once he’d ascertained that the plumbing problem to ruin his upstairs neighbors’ pipes hadn’t affected his own, he'd showered, at least. He clapped a hand over his eyes to block out light, suddenly sure his head was going to start pounding any second. He knew he should call Mycroft then and there, cancel the whole thing. He was in no shape to be… whatever it was he was meant to be to Mycroft Holmes tonight. 

He really had no idea what they were doing. The sum total of his non-professional or non-Sherlock interactions with the man included: five drinks at a hotel bar after running into each other - Greg on a case, Mycroft leaving a benefit in the ballroom; one ill-advised bathroom handjob (mutual) in said hotel bar; traded blowjobs in the back of a limo when Mycroft just so happened to be passing by the Met on his way to catch a flight to - he claimed - Stuttgart; and a handjob - Greg receiving - in some office in some stuffy club Greg can’t pronounce the name of without having heard it said out loud - which he hadn’t because no one’s allowed to  _ speak _ there. 

The suggestion of a meeting at Greg’s place had been a shock this past Monday, but Greg had jumped at the chance. Mycroft Holmes was… well. Greg would never admit that he had a type and that type was most efficiently described as  _ well out of his league,  _ but. 

Greg had only had a glimpse so far of what the man was like beyond the suits and the scary assistant. Most of that glimpse involved things like how the man kissed, what sounds he made when he was close, and the particular scent of his cologne mixed with sweat. The idea of having him in a place with an actual bed? With a nightstand Greg knew to contain lube, condoms, whatever else they might want to mess about with? Sign Greg up. 

Now here he was, exhausted, back and feet aching, with the beginnings of a migraine. The smart thing to do would be to call again and actually cancel, but…

All Greg could think about was that time the hot water heater went to hell in his old house, and he and Rebecca had boiled pots of water on the hob and poured them into the tub to have a bubble bath together anyway. That time when he lived in a terrible studio flat with a busted radiator and draughty windows, and he and his mate-fuck-buddy-maybe-boyfriend Paul had spent half the winter going at it under no less than seven blankets every chance they got. All the times the day had been a wash but the evening had made up for it, because someone had been there.

His throat hurt with it. The aloneness that came with a day  _ this bad.  _ And yes, his temples throbbed. 

Still, at twenty minutes to seven, he took himself and his bag out to wait for Mycroft’s car. 

  
  


*

  
  


“Don’t think I’m angling,” Greg said through his wince as he was ushered into Mycroft’s flat by the man himself. He gestured with his duffel. “It’s just that after this I have to check in to a hotel. Maybe. My flat’s probably done for, at least for the weekend.”

Mycroft steadied him with hands on his shoulders, which Greg hadn’t been aware he needed til it was happening. “What? What’s happened?” 

Greg vaguely recognized that Mycroft’s sharp eyes were scanning his face. “Just a plumbing leak. A plumbing… fucking  _ flood,  _ if I’m honest. The place is soaked, and the electric’s out. That’s all. It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re very pale.” Mycroft’s hand hovered near Greg’s face but didn’t touch it. “Are you ill?”

Greg swallowed hard, unsure how things had fallen apart this fast. He wasn’t even properly through the door yet. “Just tired. Uh… might’ve had a long night. Late crime scene, and then some drunk bastard crashed into my car.”

Mycroft paused. “Sorry… what?”

“I wasn’t in it.” Greg scrubbed a hand over the side of his own face. “Sorry, listen, I shouldn’t have come—” 

“You  _ absolutely  _ should have.” Mycroft took the bag from Greg’s hands and set it aside. “My god, Greg, you’ve been through hell.”

Greg thought - faintly, somewhere in the back of his mind, where it was safe to think it - that this may have been the first time Mycroft’s ever said his first name without someone’s hands down someone else’s pants. 

“No,” Greg managed, even as his vision swam with the migraine that was now actually upon him. “The people whose daughter was found in a skip last night have been through hell. I just—” he winced. “I just have one hell of a headache coming on.”

Mycroft’s hand covered his eyes immediately. “I thought so. Are you prone to migraine?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” Mycroft’s fingers were cool against Greg’s eyelids, and against the back of his neck where the other hand came up to touch. “That’s alright.” Mycroft’s voice dropped to a soft, low register. “Let’s go into the lounge. The drapes there are very heavy. It will be perfectly dark in there, and you can rest on the sofa.”

“Mycroft—”

“I won’t be hearing any arguments.”

Greg found himself being led, that soft hand over his eyes, and he simply followed, for want of anything else to do. 

Mycroft guided him down onto an incredibly plush sofa. Greg groaned before he could stop himself. “Sorry,” he managed. 

“Keep your eyes closed,” was all Mycroft had to say, before his hand left Greg’s face. A moment later, Greg heard the sounds of three sets of curtains being snapped shut. Mycroft’s footsteps drew close again. “Lie down,” he said. “Just rest. I do have some caffeine pills here, and I’ll bring them to you along with some aspirin in just a moment. I’m going to make some calls. I’ll be back soon. Do  _ not  _ get up.”

Greg, frozen for a second, waited to hear Mycroft leave, or sigh, or change his mind. He realized, after an awkward stretch of time, that Mycroft was waiting to be obeyed. 

That’d be hot, actually, were Greg’s very sinuses not threatening to be pulsed out of his skull by the building pressure behind his eyes. 

He did as told, and laid himself along the length of the sofa, which seemed designed to suck him further into its depths. 

“Good,” said Mycroft. And then he did walk away. Greg listened to his footsteps retreating until he could hear them no more. 

After that, he simply… ceased to be conscious. 

  
  


*

  
  


“You were only asleep for a short time,” Mycroft assured him, passing over tablets and a glass of water. “Twenty minutes, perhaps. I had time to place an order for dinner to be delivered, and to check that the guest room is fit for use.”

Greg swallowed the pills, already feeling better for the darkness and the power nap. “The… guest room?”

“Am I meant to throw you out into the street with nowhere to go?”

Greg couldn’t make out much of Mycroft’s face in the dark. He blinked, trying to clear his head and adjust to the lack of light. “I can go to a hotel.” 

Mycroft made a sound - a clear dismissal of that idea - and stood from the sofa. “I hope Italian is alright.”

“You… don’t have to feed me.” Greg couldn’t help but fidget a bit. “Seriously, I know this isn’t what you had planned for the evening. It’s fine.”

“I’m going to continue to decline to hear any arguments,” Mycroft said. “You should stay here and let the medication do its job. I’ll be in the kitchen. It’s just through the door and down the hall to the right.”

“Room with an oven, got it.”

Mycroft let out a little huff of amusement. “Indeed.”

And then, without another word, he was gone again, leaving Greg to contemplate his situation. Sitting around uselessly in the dark lounge of his fuck buddy’s posh Kensington townhouse, fighting off a migraine, apparently being shuttled into the guest room tonight instead of - as he’d dearly hoped - getting fucked into next week. It wasn’t just going against his plans; it was  _ concerning.  _ Was Mycroft Holmes the type of person to find this sort of… vulnerability? Difficulty? Annoyance? Whatever - would he find it unattractive? Would this render their short-lived arrangement completely obsolete now? Greg winced. Had he just become a charity case, and ruined all his chances at anything else? 

_ Great.  _

He let his head fall back against the sofa cushions and sighed. Closing his eyes, he could feel that the throb of pain in his head had begun to lessen already. He still held the glass of water in hand, and forced himself to gulp down the rest. He would just sit here until it felt manageable to get up and move; to make his excuses. He couldn’t let Mycroft put him up in the guest room. He would say his sister could put him up for the weekend. He would thank Mycroft for the offer, for dinner, and get out of there quick before his pathetic state became even more cemented in the man’s mind. 

That’s what he would do. As soon as he could pry his eyes open again. 

  
  


*

  
  


“Greg.” 

He startled a little at the touch of a hand to his shoulder, coming awake with a sharp inhale. “Whatsit— Mycroft?”

“Mm.” The hand stroked briefly down Greg’s arm, and then pulled away. “You fell asleep, which is perfectly fine, of course, but it’s past nine now and I thought you might be hungry.” 

“Past—” Greg struggled to sit up. “You shouldn’t have let me take over your lounge like that.”

Mycroft gave another of his little huffs. “Yes, it was quite the hardship, staying out of a room I barely use anyway, for all of forty minutes.”

Greg shifted, feeling slightly gummy and certain that his hair was doing the hedgehog thing after over an hour passed out on Mycroft’s extremely high-quality sofa. “I should go.” 

“You absolutely should not.” Mycroft - who Greg realized all at once was crouched on the floor beside the sofa - placed a hand on his knee. “Would you like to eat in here? We could… choose a film, or… Or, we could go into the kitchen.”

Greg blinked. “I—” Was this accidentally turning into a date? Did Mycroft Holmes do dates? Greg was almost certain that he _didn’t,_ based on their last three meetings. “A film sounds nice,” he said. “I… need to freshen up, maybe.”

In the dim light from the hallway, Greg thought he saw Mycroft’s eyes flick to his hair before the man stood and said, “Of course. I’ll point you toward the guest room. There is a bathroom en suite.”

“Right.” Greg rubbed his hands on his thighs to keep from nervously raking them through his hair and worsening things. “Sure, lead the way.”

  
  


*

  
  


Dinner was… nice. Normal. Like they did such things all the time - though they never had. They didn’t even bother putting on a film at first, having begun a conversation while they carried in their plates. Greg trailed off for a second, having a bit of a moment as he watched Mycroft take off his cufflinks and set them on the side table before cuffing his sleeves and mirroring Greg’s casual posture, leaned forward on the edge of the sofa to eat his pasta over the coffee table. But other than that - the distraction of Mycroft’s bare forearms, the way he looked very at ease and attentive and all of that - the conversation was easy and flowed nicely. 

Greg related the sad story of his ruined car. 

“That truly is a terrible day,” Mycroft said. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Well.” Greg shrugged. “It’s definitely improved, now.” He carefully did not move his flushing face, starting at his own hand holding a slice of garlic bread. “Anyway. Enough about all of that. How, um… I know you probably can’t tell me specifics, but. How was yours?”

Mycroft twirled spaghetti around his fork and tilted his head back and forth, once and then again. “Fair to middling,” he said. “Improved now, as well.”

Greg looked away from his hands, smiling and surprised, to find Mycroft averting his eyes. 

_ Huh.  _

“The controls for the television are just there,” Mycroft said when he collected their plates to carry back to the kitchen. “You choose.”

Were they really going to watch a film? Greg glanced around as if looking for answers in the empty lounge. Mycroft had lit a couple of lamps for dinner, but it still wasn’t bright in the room. It was cozy. But… Greg stood and clicked off all but one lamp, the dimmest, in the far corner, creating an almost theater-like atmosphere. The remote controls were easy enough to figure out; the entertainment system wasn’t complicated. Mycroft had said he rarely used this room. He probably wasn’t fussy about his telly, then. 

Netflix’s red ‘N’ filled the screen and the familiar log-in sound played as Mycroft re-entered the room. If he took notice of the lighting change, or had any issues with it, he didn’t indicate as much. He sat himself down without so much as a glance at the lamps, an entire cushion away from Greg on the sofa. 

Greg bit his lip and wondered what would happen if he just slid over right now. He could maybe recover the original goal of the evening if he did. Or he would get shot down, which would make a bad day irredeemably worse. 

“Do you fancy something funny? Or something mindless with lots of explosions? A classic? Or something newer?”

“I really have no preference.”

Greg couldn’t help it, he shot Mycroft an unimpressed glance and said, “Work with me here, Holmes.”

“I… Truly, I hadn’t—”

Greg’s traitorous brain supplied him with a handy phrase taught to him (to his horror) by his teenage niece a few weeks ago.  _ Netflix and chill.  _ He blinked, and then bit his own tongue hard to keep back a sudden hysterical laugh. 

Mycroft noticed; of course he did. “What is it?”

“It’s just.” Greg shook his head, unable to fight off the grin entirely. “It’s nothing.”

“It clearly isn’t.”

Greg noticed the edge of defensiveness. “I’m not laughing at you,” he hurried to say. 

“I didn’t think that you were.”

“Alright, whatever you say,” Greg said, then chomped down on his tongue all over again. That had come off a bit snippy. “I mean - I really wasn’t. It’s just that if I didn’t know any better I’d think you planned to take advantage.”

Mycroft’s mouth opened and worked soundlessly for a moment.  _ “Advantage,”  _ he repeated, an edge of stuffy shock in his voice that was more endearing than it had any right to be.

“Mmhmm.” Greg gestured at the TV. “Netflix,” he said. “And  _ chill.” _

“Netflix and  _ what?” _

“It means sex, Mycroft.”

“It does not.”

Greg laughed this time. “I assure you, I have it from someone living on the bleeding edge of pop culture that that is, in fact, what it means. You put something on that you’ve no intention of watching, and you fool around instead.”

Mycroft’s face was baffled and a bit flushed. “Why on earth would anyone be so  _ opaque  _ about their intentions?”

“Well, if you know what it means, it’s not opaque.” Greg shrugged. “It just struck me as funny, that’s all.”

“I wasn’t—” Mycroft looked away again, drawing a slow breath. “I didn’t mean it in that way.”

“I know that,” Greg said, careful to be gentle with his tone. “Of course I know that. But… I mean… we could. We could still…”

Mycroft shook his head. Greg’s stomach dropped. But then Mycroft stood. “You have had a terrible day.”

“Orgasms tend to improve those.”

“So does  _ rest.” _ Mycroft crossed to the little bar cart by the still-lit lamp. 

Greg watched the long lines of him as he did, and sighed. “Right.”

“Drink?”

“Sure.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder. “You aren’t obligated to have one.”

“No,” Greg sighed again. “I want one.”

A moment later Mycroft approached with two tumblers of amber liquid and handed one to Greg. 

Shoving his pride viciously to the side, Greg said, “Will you at least not sit a mile away from me? I know I’m a bit of a sad sack tonight, but it’s not contagious.”

Mycroft straightened, his own glass clutched close to his chest. “I—” He seemed to scan Greg’s face and perform a swift calculation. To crunch the numbers and come to a conclusion. “I merely wanted to provide you with a calming evening, free of any obligation or expectation. I wasn’t  _ rejecting _ you.”

“Well,” Greg said, “great. Good.” 

Mycroft remained standing. 

“Are you planning to sit, or?”

With a huff, Mycroft did. This time, gratifyingly, he did so on the cushion directly beside Greg’s. 

“It’s just that we don’t really do this,” Greg said, apologetic. “And I’m really…  _ really _ worn out. I think I felt sorry for myself and let it get a little ridiculous. Sorry.”

Mycroft shook his head and smiled into his glass before taking a sip. “For heaven’s sake, man. Just choose a film, already.”

  
  


*

  
  


Ten minutes into the first Jurassic Park, Greg gently lifted Mycroft’s hand off the sofa cushion between them and guided the man’s arm around his own shoulders. He had been debating with himself about whether he ought to do it, and in the end his selfish need for a cuddle won out. But Mycroft shifted closer, half on Greg’s cushion and half on his own. Greg couldn’t hold back a satisfied sigh as he let his head settle on Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“This film,” Mycroft said after a while longer, “is extraordinary for being over twenty years old.”

“Isn’t it?” Greg grinned. “I was in my twenties when it came out. I felt like a little kid in the theater, it was just so bloody cool. You’ve never seen it?”

“No.” Mycroft’s fingers stroked gently, absently, where they rested on Greg’s shoulder. “I believe around that time I would have been overseas quite frequently. Not that I was ever particularly well-versed in popular culture, but there is a truly blank space spanning much of the early nineties.”

“Mm.” Greg shifted a little closer, leaning into Mycroft’s side. God, he was so warm. “Well, you should check some things out from back then; see what you like.”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured. “Perhaps I will.”

Greg flicked a glance up, expecting to find him absorbed by the lumbering herd of brontosauri. Instead, he found Mycroft’s eyes, shadowed in the low light, aimed down at him. “Hey,” he said, voice rasping out of his throat. 

“Hello,” said Mycroft, and then his other hand was cupped along Greg’s jaw, guiding him into a soft, chaste kiss that lingered even as it remained innocent. Sweet, even. “Thank you for indulging me.”

“What?”

“This is… very nice.”

Greg’s heart stuttered. “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  
  


*

  
  


The credits rolled, and Greg half expected Mycroft to move away, to disentangle them from the sort-of-cuddle they’ve ended up in. Somewhere around the middle of the film, Greg had brought his legs up onto the sofa, crossed, and curled more tightly into Mycroft’s side, snaking his arm between him and the back cushions. Eventually, that hand had found its way to Mycroft’s, and their fingers had knotted together against Mycroft’s thigh. The arm around Greg had slid down around his waist, and Greg had actually been debating whether to just give in and lie down, lay his head in Mycroft’s lap, but hadn’t quite worked up the nerve. 

Mycroft didn't extract himself. “Greg?”

“Mmmm?” 

“You’re awake, then?”

“Yep.” Greg pushed up a bit, bringing his face level to Mycroft’s. “Alright?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, and kissed him.

It was a slightly awkward angle at first, but Greg acted swiftly, pressing up onto his knees, unfurling from around Mycroft so he could hold him first by the shoulders and then with a palm on each cheek, and deepen the kiss.  _ Yes, _ he thought. _ Yes, yes, yes, please more.  _

In moments, Greg found himself in Mycroft’s lap, knees settled on either side, arms slung lazily around the man’s shoulders, kissing like it happened all the time between them - and not just as a precursor to hastily traded orgasms. His nostrils were full of Mycroft’s expensive cologne and the lingering scents of their drinks, of supper. It smelled cozy and warm, here in Mycroft’s lap. Greg let his hips rock a little, but didn’t push for anything too hot and heavy. This was nice and comfortable, a little sleepy. 

It felt real, like affection on top of attraction, maybe. Greg had forgotten how nice that could feel. 

“I meant what I said,” Mycroft said after a while, words smudged against Greg’s jaw. “I intend to see you have a good night’s sleep, and it is already late.”

Greg allowed himself a bit of a whine. “Don’t send me to the guest room just yet.”

On Greg’s hips, Mycroft’s fingers tightened for a moment, and then loosened again. “Well,” he said, and moved his hands to Greg’s shoulders, pressing him back gently so they could look at each other. “You… don’t have to sleep there, if you would prefer not to.”

Greg bit the inside of his lower lip, trying to read Mycroft in the low light. “Are you asking me to literally sleep with you?”

“I’m offering, if you wish to do so.”

Greg couldn’t stop himself from petting at him, soothing him and the nerves evident in his voice. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course I do. I just didn’t think you’d want… We’ve never… I mean, none of this. We have never done any of this.”

Mycroft made a vague sound, one Greg couldn’t interpret. “That,” Mycroft said after a moment, “is a matter of… timing, perhaps. Not so much one of… Not so much due to my lack of. Regard. For you.”

Greg smiled. He buried it in Mycroft’s neck and took a breath. “Yeah?”

“Well. Yes.”

“D’you  _ like _ me?” Greg felt giddy, like he could say any stupid thing and it would be fine. He borrowed again from his nieces. “Like... like- _ like  _ me?”

Mycroft laughed silently, shaking a bit under Greg’s hands. “What?”

“Well, do you?”

The hand was gentle, his thumb hooked beneath Greg’s jaw to encourage him up and out of the warm crook of Mycroft’s neck. “Yes, Greg,” he said. “I do like you.”

“Well. Alright, then.”

  
  


*

  
  


Greg woke twice the next morning. Once, with arms around him. He didn’t bother opening his eyes. He simply let himself sink further into the warmth of it, silently shifting to feel the steady rise and fall of a chest against his back. He tilted his neck, seeking out the heat of each exhale gusting over his throat. 

He went back to sleep. 

The second time, he opened his eyes and found that the light beyond the curtains was pale. It was early; possibly very early. But he was alone in bed. 

Greg shifted and stretched, rolling coincidentally into the space previously occupied by Mycroft. It was still warm. Maybe he’d only gone to the toilet. But the en suite was silent. Greg hauled himself up, amazed at how nice his joints felt, how solidly he had slept. Mycroft, of course, had an extremely nice mattress. But also… also it had been incredible, sleeping with another person like that. Greg had always loved that. He was sometimes a bit of an octopus in bed. There had been both complaints and compliments about that. He hoped Mycroft hadn’t minded. 

He forced himself out of bed and to the loo, where he relieved himself and splashed clean his face. His own toothbrush was still located in his bag in the guest room - he’d slept, as usual, in his pants, which Mycroft hadn’t seemed to mind a bit. But, there on the granite vanity was a still-wrapped, brand new toothbrush, so Greg used it and drank a glass of water from the tap before returning to the bedroom. 

Should he go downstairs? Should he get dressed first? Snag the dressing gown still hung on the back of the bathroom door?

He sat on the edge of the bed to contemplate his next move. He didn’t need to do so for long. Mycroft’s footsteps creaked outside the door moments later, and the door opened slowly. Greg watched as Mycroft edged into view, hands full with two mugs of tea, his foot carefully nudging the door open as if he worried that Greg might still be asleep. 

“Oh,” he said when he noticed Greg sitting up, shirtless and sort of awkward. “Hello.”

“Hey.” Greg reached up to fix his hair, not that he thought there was much to be done. Without a shower and some product, it was going to stick up a lot. “Sorry if I overslept?”

“It’s quite early,” Mycroft said, stepping fully into the room. “But I struggle to stay asleep past six, and sadly I suffer from a certain level of dependency on routine and caffeine.”

Greg couldn’t bite back the fond grin. “The way you say things sometimes,” he murmured. “Put the tea down.”

Mycroft put the tea down.

“Come here?”

Mycroft came there. 

Greg framed Mycroft’s hips with his hands, fingers stroking over the soft cotton of his pajama bottoms. The man slept in long pants and a t-shirt. He looked terribly soft and mussed this way. Greg leaned forward and, on impulse, rubbed his nose there against the worn cotton at Mycroft’s sternum before taking a deep breath in. Mycroft’s hands closed over his shoulders.    


“Greg?”

“You’re really…” Greg pressed his lips in a chaste kiss to the center of Mycroft’s chest. “Lovely,” he sighed, and then he tilted his face up to be caught in Mycroft’s hands. 

_ Kissing.  _

Greg knew Mycroft was good at it, obviously, but all of their kissing before last night had been a bit pointed - aimed at a certain goal. This was too, but… The  _ tone _ of it was different. It was more lush. Intimate. More sensual. And still incredibly, mind-meltingly hot. They had ridiculous chemistry, and Greg had let go of the notion that the events of the day before would dull it. They’d only made it stronger, somehow. 

_ You  _ like  _ me, _ Greg thought, and let his mouth fall open under Mycroft’s. 

Soon he was sprawled on his back, crosswise on the mattress, with Mycroft’s knee between his thighs, Mycroft’s arms holding him up over Greg’s body. Greg tugged him down, scrambling to plant his feet on the bed and shove himself further back to give Mycroft’s long legs some room. Mycroft came easily, his hands a little rough on Greg’s thighs as they spread. He gasped beautifully into Greg’s mouth as they rubbed together. 

They’d never done it like this. They’d never touched this much before last night. Greg had never been this naked in front of Mycroft before. And actually, despite the fact that he was still wearing bottoms and a shirt, Mycroft had never been so bared to Greg either. 

Mycroft’s mouth burned a line along Greg’s jaw and down his throat, fastening in just the right spot, right below Greg’s earlobe, to suck gently and send Greg shaking, leaning in to the pressure as goosebumps exploded over his body, tightening his nipples and making him shiver. 

Of course Mycroft knew, already, how to make Greg desperate just by kissing and touching the pieces of him that would be accessible without much undressing. He hadn’t needed much practice to figure it out. 

_ Holmeses.  _

Greg squeezed his thighs around Mycroft’s hips and hitched up into the friction -  _ not enough -  _ between them. He worked his fingers under the sleeves of Mycroft’s tee, tracing the soft skin, the lean lines of his arms. 

“Take this off?” He managed, lips against Mycroft’s ear. 

Mycroft paused his torturous exploration of Greg’s throat long enough to sit up and strip away the shirt. 

Greg only had a moment to take in what seemed like acres of smooth, pale skin, before Mycroft fell on top of him again, one long-fingered hand tilting Greg’s head back so he could get at him with teeth and tongue even more effectively. Greg writhed and raked his fingertips down Mycroft’s bare back. 

Greg’s boxers found their way to the floor, and Mycroft’s nose worked its way down the thin trail of hair down from Greg’s navel. His hands made to lift Greg’s legs; he shifted in order to work his shoulders beneath Greg’s thighs. 

“Wait,” Greg gasped, forcing himself to sit up a bit. “Wait, please, not yet.”

“Not yet?” Mycroft sat up between his legs. “Really?”

“Want you naked. With me.” Greg reached a hand toward Mycroft, beckoning, even as he slid sideways and up the mattress, moving the right way around in the bed. “Will you come here?” 

Mycroft stood and shoved the bottoms off his hips, letting them fall before kicking them away. Greg drank in the sight of him, greedy for it. He’d been wondering, picturing, extrapolating based only on what he had felt with his fingertips with fabric in the way, or with his hands shoved between trousers and skin, up under a shirt and trapped, limited by the weight of waistcoat and suit jacket. There was none of that now. 

“You’ve had your appendix out,” Greg blurted, his fingers moving to the scar as Mycroft walked on his knees up the length of the mattress. “Like me.” 

“Yes,” Mycroft said. 

“And what’s this one?” Greg traced another scar, along Mycroft’s ribcage. It was old and white but thick and raised. 

Mycroft settled against him, and Greg opened his thighs for him again, shuddering at the silky-hot contact as their erections slotted together. 

“I was stabbed,” Mycroft said plainly, even as he shivered hard enough for Greg to see, hear and feel it. “The year Jurassic Park premiered, as a matter of fact.”

Greg hauled him down and kissed him for want of anything better to do, any adequate words to say in response to that. 

_ Who the fuck, why the fuck, where the hell were you, don’t ever go there again, oh god, skin! Skin, skin, skin… _

“You feel so fucking good,” Greg managed to say between his teeth and Mycroft’s. “God, I want you, Mycroft,  _ please.” _

“Anything,” Mycroft said, his smooth voice rough now. “Tell me.” 

“Will you—” Greg hitched his thighs around Mycroft’s waist. “Would you fuck me? Please?”

Mycroft shivered under Greg’s hands.  _ “Yes.” _

  
  


*

  
  


It had absolutely  _ never _ been like this before. Not just between them, but between Greg and anyone. Any man, at least, but possibly any  _ person.  _

Mycroft was careful and solicitous, and then after Greg teased him a bit, firm and capable, steady hands and seeking fingers, nipping teeth and sucking mouth. He fingered Greg open, one hand hooked firmly behind Greg’s knee to hold one leg up and open, while the other worked just this side of roughly, one and then two fingers twisting while Greg lost his entire  _ mind,  _ arched against the pillows. 

Yeah, Greg had never imagined it would be like  _ this.  _ Mycroft was gentle with him in some ways, yes, but it seemed the words  _ fuck me  _ had worked as if by magic, inducing Mycroft to simply…  _ do that.  _ In every possible way. Hard, fast, with fingers and with his tongue, which slid thickly alongside Greg’s. The kiss almost overwhelmed him as the pads of Mycroft’s fingers shoved in and up, exploding what little dignity Greg had been clinging to to smithereens. 

He begged, but not for long. 

“On your side,” Mycroft breathed, hands already turning Greg the way he wanted him. “Up.” His palm smacked gently against Greg’s thigh.    


Greg drew it up, spread his legs, and gasped at the blunt pressure of Mycroft’s cock. He tipped his head back against Mycroft’s shoulder, gasping his name with the first press inside.

“Shh.” Mycroft’s lips brushed softly behind Greg’s ear. “Slowly.”

Greg flung back a hand and found Mycroft's hair.  _ “Now,”  _ he insisted. 

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, dry amusement under his voice. “Be—” His body shuddered. “Fuck. Be patient.”

Greg gasped at the profanity and tried to shove back, to meet Mycroft’s slow push inside. “Don’t make me— wait—  _ ah—”  _

Mycroft  _ bit  _ him, teeth sharp against Greg’s earlobe. “I’m trying,” he said, ragged, and paused to grip Greg by the hip, hold him still. “I’m trying to make this  _ last.” _

Greg laughed. “Oh,” he said. “That’s okay. Just— we can go again later.”

Mycroft huffed and slid the rest of the way home with a groan. He turned Greg’s head, hand cool and soft against his cheek, and kissed him as he moved, easing back out and then in again in a slow, shaking roll. 

Greg found himself stammering into the kiss, incomplete noises, groans and whimpers choked off by his own shaking. He could feel himself leaking precome against his belly. He clenched, all at once around Mycroft in a full-body throb, and swallowed another desperate sound. 

“Greg.” 

“Yeah, come on.”

“Touch yourself.” Mycroft’s chin hooked over Greg’s shoulder. “Let me see. Let me feel it?”

Greg sobbed and took himself in his fist, knowing this would be the beginning of the end. “Harder,” he gasped. “Please.”

Mycroft braced himself on one elbow, the other hand tight on Greg’s hip. The only sounds he made were ragged exhalations, swallowed groans, as he worked his hips harder, faster, beginning to grow erratic already. 

Greg twisted his palm over the head of his cock and tried to say something, to cry out. But he was so tight with it, so full of pressure, that he couldn’t manage it. Couldn’t do more than whine as he came over his own knuckles, his entire body tightening and shuddering hard around Mycroft. 

_ “God,” _ Mycroft said -  _ shouted -  _ into the bend of Greg’s neck, shoving hard against the tightening of Greg’s muscles and holding him tightly by the thigh. “Oh, god, I—” 

“Yeah,” Greg slurred, his hand reaching back to try and hold Mycroft close, keep him moving through the last twitches of his own orgasm. “Oh, jesus, Mycroft,  _ yeah.” _

And Mycroft laughed as he came. And then after, just a little, just softly, across the same skin he’d just shouted against as he’d emptied himself, hot and slick, into Greg’s trembling body. “My god.”

Greg shivered. 

It was very quiet - silent, for just a moment, save for their labored breaths. 

“You…” Greg bit his tongue on a laugh. “You  _ really _ like me, huh?”

Mycroft pinched him, right on the thigh. “Don’t  _ fish,”  _ he snapped, but it was undeniably affectionate, and Greg laughed out loud this time. 

_ Ah, fuck,  _ he thought.  _ I’m gonna fall for you hard.  _

  
  


*

  
  


“Hey,” Greg said at the door two nights later - many hours, multiple films and orgasms later ( _ lots  _ of Netflix,  _ lots  _ of chill, if Greg did say so himself) - while a town car idled in the street. “So… you can keep booty calling me if you like.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up.  _ “Booty calling?” _

Greg grinned and leaned in for a quick kiss. “It’s like Netflix and chill, but initiated at the last minute via text.”

“My  _ god.” _

“Anyway.” Greg nipped at Mycroft’s jaw and let one hand slip under the hem of Mycroft’s soft green jumper to feel the skin at the very base of his spine, soft and warm. “Please do that. But. I would be  _ very  _ alright with more of this. Dinner. A film. Plans. Whatever.”

“I believe you are attempting to describe dating.” Mycroft pulled Greg closer by the hip and caught his mouth in a longer, more intimate kiss, his teasing tongue sweet-tasting from the dessert they’d shared after dinner. 

“Yep. You up for it?”

Mycroft smiled into the next kiss. “Yes,” he said, when he finally drew away. “Now… get in that car.” He gave Greg a gentle push. “Or I’ll never let you leave.”

Greg grinned at him, and did step back, out of Mycroft’s front doorway. “Call me,” he said. 

Mycroft nodded. 

“Great.” Greg made his way, backwards, off the porch, unwilling to turn his back on what had turned out to be the nicest couple of days he’d had in a long time. 

He gave Mycroft one last wave before he ducked into the waiting car. It would take him back to his flat - now mercifully dry, with working electricity and everything - and he was glad. Glad that it had been fixed by the weekend’s end. He wouldn’t examine the expediency too closely, lest he get ideas about asking his… Mycroft…  _ (boyfriend, _ whispered a feeling in his chest) to pull strings for him too much in the future. 

He tried not to let himself feel disappointed when Mycroft ducked back inside of the house, shutting the front door behind him, as soon as the car door shut behind Greg. 

Then, as the car pulled off from the curb, Greg’s mobile buzzed. 

_ Your place, Tuesday night? MH _

Greg grinned. 

_ Sure. Netflix and chill. Sounds great.  _

_ Must we use this terminology? MH _

_ We don’t have to. Come to mine. Let me cook you dinner. Watch a film with me. And then fuck me through the mattress? 7pm Tuesday. Sounds good.  _

_ Netflix and chill does seem more efficient, on second thought. MH _

Greg pretended that he wasn’t pressing his lips to the top of his mobile, as if he could kiss Mycroft through it. He pretended not to be blushing; not to be shivering, hot and prickly. 

Not to be completely and utterly  _ gone.  _

By Tuesday night, he would have given up on even trying to pretend. 


End file.
